


hungover in the city of dust

by rexflame



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Nonbinary Character, i'm back on my fire emblem bullshit!, spoilers y'all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 07:09:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20093314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexflame/pseuds/rexflame
Summary: byleth cracks open.seteth wonders what to do with the pieces.





	hungover in the city of dust

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I HAVE NOT BEAT THE GAME. I AM JUST EMOTIONAL. I DO HAVE SETETH SPOILERS
> 
> anyway, i wanted to write a bit more of byleth just..mourning. breaking. feeling and hurting. so this is the product of that!
> 
> in this work byleth is nb and uses they/them.

Byleth doesn’t eat for a week.

Or maybe it’s days, or maybe it’s hours - grief settles into their mouth like a thick layer of dust, something they fold under their tongue. They step out to talk to Rhea, to give curt nods to Seteth, but their teeth bite their lips the whole time, breath stuttering in their chest, and long sleeves become soaked with tears they had not known they  _ could  _ cry.

Maybe that’s the problem, maybe that’s why this hurts. The learning to hurt. They feel like a student in this world of breath-stolen and shuddered-sobs, of isolation and neglect. It becomes harder to speak in the passing days, tongue forming into iron, and they want to scream. 

_ Don’t you see how much it hurts? I can’t do this anymore. I’m not strong. I’m not made of steel. _

Eventually, Byleth stops answering the knocks. Jeralt’s room sits untouched, unburdened - the most they had managed was the night he fell, hovering outside it, wordless tears on cobblestone. What do they even say?  _ I am sorry, father, for being a failure?  _

When they finally peer at the calendar, it has only been four days. Each one has passed like fingernails on chalkboard, a hollow ringing between their ears. Sleep is barely a comfort, a thousand dreams of bloodstained swords and  _ what good is turning back time if it still wasn’t enough, couldn’t save him? _

(sometimes, when they wake up, they see blood on their hands.)

On the fifth day, they open their door to a knock, a knock and an insistent - “Professor, I have been tasked to make sure you are caring for yourself.”

They almost laugh - it boils up in the bottom of their throat, and they choke on it. The amusement. It dies, falls apart, falls to the ground, the smell of iron -

Byleth tilts their head down, blinks, and looks back up at Seteth - Seteth, who stands awkwardly with a tray bearing some sort of warm soup and bread. They wordlessly beckon him into their room, and he follows, doing a sort of awkward turn. 

It’s almost charming. 

The food is placed upon a messy stack of papers and books - and next to Byleth’s pile of broken quills, empty inkwells, and crumpled letters. Seteth gives a sort of disparaging look at the mess, reaches to push a few of the discarded pages from the table, and they can’t stop themselves from sobbing hollowly.

Seteth looks just as alarmed as Byleth feels.

“I...am...sorry?” the green haired man offers uncertainly, stepping away from Byleth, his hands slightly raised - like dealing with a cornered animal.

“Those were to him,” Byleth starts before they can stop themselves, words spilling off their lips as they slump down onto their bed.

“I had so many things to tell him, so much to say, and I never did - and I never told him I loved him. That he was a good father. I never…”

Their eyes go empty, and they stare forward, feeling tears slide down their face. The bed dips beside them, a soft  _ creak,  _ and for a moment, the only noises are their hiccups and Seteth’s soft breaths.

“Grief is heavy,” he speaks, finally.

“That you bear it and carry on is... impressive.”

“Why does everyone say that?” is Byleth’s response, and they put a hand over their eyes, willing the tears to stop. The wetness feels disgusting, heavy, foreign.

“I’m not strong. I’m not him. I can’t be him.”

Seteth furrows his brows and frowns.  _ Good,  _ Byleth thinks.  _ Leave me be.  _ But then a hand is placed on their shoulder and it feels like electricity, feels like a lifeline, feels like everything and nothing all at once and they can’t breathe - 

“You do not have to be. You have proven yourself as you.”

Seteth sighs, and Byleth breathes, and their gazes do not meet.

“I know it may seem as if we all desire to see him instead of you. Certainly, at first, I had my...reservations.”

He gives an awkward cough.

“But your students revere you. I have come to respect you. You will need to mourn - none of us shall begrudge you that. To continue living under that weight is why we claim you have fortitude.”

There is a small smile on Seteth’s face when he finishes, and for a moment, Byleth doesn’t trust their voice. Then, a small croak, broken, but sincere nonetheless - “Thank you.”

Seteth stands. Byleth stares. Their eyes meet, thinly veiled sorrows bared thin, and Seteth inclines his head slightly.

“Please do not forget to eat.”

(this time, the laugh that bubbles in their throat doesn’t make them ill.)


End file.
